We set off from London on a Friday morning with the vague plan of a quick stop in Chichester for supplies, but the satnav had other ideas and sent us down a lane so narrow the wing mirrors nearly swapped paint with a hedge. By the time we reached Bognor the drizzle had turned proper, and we pulled up outside the cottage with the sort of damp relief that only comes after two wrong turns and one very patient tractor driver. The key safe was exactly where the host said, yet the door stuck until a firm shoulder convinced it, and we tumbled inside laughing at our own soggy state.

First impressions were better than expected. The sitting room felt instantly homely, with a well-worn sofa angled toward the window that looked straight onto the shingle. We dumped our bags and decided a short walk would shake off the journey, heading vaguely toward the seafront without a map. Within minutes the pavement gave way to a gravel track bordered by brambles, and we found ourselves in a small, scruffy patch of grass that turned out to be someone’s unofficial shortcut to the beach. A handwritten sign nailed to a post read “Beach path – mind the dip,” and we followed it down to a stretch of pebbles that felt miles from the busier promenade.

What started as a five-minute stretch of the legs turned into an accidental treasure hunt. A gap in the fence led to a tiny, overgrown garden belonging to a closed-up beach hut; behind it sat an old rowing boat half-buried in marram grass, its name barely legible. Further along, a wooden stile took us into a field where a footpath ran parallel to the shore, empty except for a couple of dog walkers and the occasional gull. We lost all sense of direction until the path opened onto a quiet cove no bigger than a tennis court, the sort of place you’d miss entirely if you stuck to the main road.

By the time we turned back, the rain had eased and the cottage looked even cosier from the outside, its porch light already on. We made tea in the small kitchen and sat with the windows open, listening to the tide. The mishap on the lane felt like a lucky diversion; without it we might have followed the obvious route and missed the boat, the stile, and that pocket of shingle altogether.